True Colours (The Third Book in the Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  "So I had surmised," Manning tried the spoon again.

  "He’ll be better when a doctor has had the chance to examine him."

  The spoon was knocked back, this time depositing a line of burgoo over Manning’s shirt. Carefully he scooped up the spill, and returned it to the bowl.

  "Haslar is the nearest hospital," he said almost absent-mindedly. "Not more’n a mile or two away, and they’ve a fair reputation."

  "Yes, but we are to travel to London," she said importantly. "There is an excellent hospital near to St Paul’s. One Sir Richard recommended; it seems his family have some influence."

  How convenient for their well-connected captain to be able to provide a hospital at the proverbial click of a finger. Manning tried another spoonful, which was unexpectedly received and swallowed.

  "And he has a house nearby in Lombard Street where I may stay while father is attended to," she added.

  "Rather opportune," Manning said, feeling ever so slightly ridiculous as he spoon-fed the man.

  "Yes," she continued, blithely unaware of any effect her words might have been causing. "Richard is a kind and thoughtful man."

  "Indeed, I am sure of it." Richard, eh?

  "He’ll be taking us up to the hospital today. As soon as he can leave the ship, we’ll be off in his own carriage." She busied herself with packing, not looking at Manning. "He said it was important for father to see a proper physician without delay. Now wasn’t that considerate?"

  * * * * *

  "No sign of a grey goose," Fraiser muttered as Pandora crept slowly towards the anchorage. The moment when a grey goose could be spotted a mile away was the official definition of daybreak. It was then that colours were raised, and signals could be made. That time was still a little way off; Pandora had already made the private signal and her number by lights, which had been acknowledged, although there had been no further contact.

  "We have company, it seems," King said, looking towards three line-of-battleships and a frigate that sat idly at anchor.

  "Aye," Fraiser agreed. "That’ll be London; we spoke with her in the winter."

  King nodded; HMS London had been the flagship of Admiral Colpoys, they had met with her and the rest of the Channel Fleet, after running in with a French invasion force. There was a slight dew and he rubbed his hands together to warm them. "Strange, if Admiral Colpoys still has her, why should she be separated from the rest of the Channel Gropers?"

  Fraiser pursed his lips. "Who can say; belike they have mutinied after all!"

  The two men smiled readily, although King knew his to be false, as Crowley’s warning came back to him once more. He looked about; all seemed perfectly normal: no signs of a mutinous horde forming to storm the ship and sail her off to France. Besides, they were well into Spithead now; there could not be a safer place, and nothing more peaceful than the scene that presented itself could be imagined.

  "Deck there, boat heading for us," The foremast lookout reported, his voice unnaturally loud in the still of early morning. "It’s comin’ from windward; from the fleet."

  King and Fraiser turned to see a cutter under sail running down towards them.

  "No, wait, there’s two; one from the land, an’ one from the fleet."

  Sure enough another, smaller, boat was heading their way under oars. That one was to be expected, it would be carrying customs officials, doubtless with health declarations and a wealth of other formalities to go through. But there was still no rush, and Fraiser decided he would call the captain shortly. The tide was carrying them in beautifully, although the leadsman had been reporting adequate depth to anchor for some while.

  "I think we might make to the convoy to shorten sail," he said, almost conversationally. "And do likewise ourselves."

  King nodded to Rose, standing in for Dorsey, who started to search through his signal book, muttering for his assistants to help. King then opened his mouth to order the change of sail, when a strange sight met his eyes.

  Men were already at the shrouds, a few were even working aloft: he could see them in the gloom of dawn taking in sail unbidden and in eerie silence. In the waist he could just make out Cobb, running to the foremast in what looked like a mild panic. There were shouts and someone was laughing almost hysterically. He turned to Fraiser, but the older man was bounding towards the break of the quarterdeck.

  "What goes there?" he bellowed, although no one had a mind to answer. Men were still taking in sail, while some attended to the starboard bower anchor. But there were others interfering, seemingly intent on restoring order, and separate arguments erupted throughout the ship. The quartermaster yelled at the helmsmen, who were turning the wheel, forcing Pandora to lurch out of the channel and towards the nearest group of anchored shipping. Light was coming faster now, men could be seen on the deck of the warships ahead of them. A sound, like a pistol shot, echoed through the confusion, and there was a momentary pause and silence. Then the anchor cable roared out, and the tumult continued afresh.

  "Master at Arms!" Fraiser shouted, as the hatless warrant officer appeared on deck. "Order there, if you please!"

  The man looked back, an expression of total incomprehension on his ruddy face. A gun fired, but from a long way off. King turned to see the colours slowly being raised across on the port admiral’s office. His glance switched to the nearby cluster of ships at anchor. They too were hoisting colours. From above the noise of shouting broke out. He looked up to see the yards and shrouds black with men waving and cheering; this was not just the watch on deck, others must have joined and yet it was long before the watch below were to be called. A fight had broken out further forward, then fists were flying seemingly everywhere; by the forecastle a group of men were at each other like bears in a pit. He looked back at the anchored fleet as the cheers continued about him and the awful truth dawned. Pandora jerked slightly as the anchor cable bit and found the Spithead mud. Fraiser was shouting from the break of the quarterdeck, and below there came the unmistakeable sound of gunfire from the captain’s cabin. Ahead the anchored warships were flying plain red flags; looking back the same red flags could be seen on ships of the Channel Fleet; the entire force had apparently been taken over by the men, or whatever power it was that backed their treachery. It was impossible, unthinkable, totally beyond belief, but a British fleet had mutinied while their country was at war.

  * * * * *

  "What’s that noise?" Banks asked as the cheering began.

  Caulfield shook his head. The squeal and clatter of the anchor had startled them both, that and what sounded like confusion and chaos on deck. Banks instinctively checked the time, it was long before the watch would be called, and he could not remember hearing the last bell struck. Both men rose to their feet as a new and separate commotion erupted outside the door. The voice of the marine sentry rang out, but this was no ordinary announcement of a potential visitor. The man’s shout, a scream almost, was indistinct. Then there was the sound of two shots close enough together to mark separate weapons. The officers made towards the door as a heavy weight hit the deck. The captain paused; there was someone in the coach outside, he heard heavy footsteps that could never belong to Dupont. He tore the door open, and was struck by the sight of three ordinary seamen advancing towards him.

  "Back in the cabin, captain." It was one of the new hands, Banks did not know his name. He was holding a discharged pistol in one hand, and as he spoke he reached for another, loaded and impending, stuck in his waistband. "An’ you, Mr Caulfield."

  "Scales, what the hell do you think you’re about?"

  Scales grinned smugly. "It ain’t just me, Mr Caulfield," he said. "I got a few friends, an’ we have help, help that you can’t imagine. The whole darned fleet is up in arms, an’ there ain’t nothing you, nor anyone else, can do about it."

  * * * * *

  On deck Fraiser and King had retreated, and now stood together by the taffrail, with Rose and two hands from the larboard watch.

  "Tain’t none of our d
oing," Ford, a topman who had been with Pandora for all the commission, assured them.

  "Them new draft seemed set on taking us from the start," the other confirmed. "Said it was all being ordered by the Channel Fleet; they knew this would happen; planned it, so they did."

  "Well something could have been said." King murmured, turning to keep his eyes on the nearest ships as Pandora swung about to present her bows to the oncoming tide. But something had; Crowley had risked much confiding in him, and what had he done? The two small boats were still making for them, although the one from the flagship would arrive first by quite a measure.

  "Pardon me, but we thoughts you was awares," Ford continued. "Thought, when you picked up Flint an’ the rest, you’d come to realise what was about."

  The man was right, Banks might have placed too much confidence in that damned ‘Round Robin’, but he himself had been equally remiss in discounting the warning of a trusted friend. Crowley had looked to him as an officer to put matters right, and he had let everyone down. Well the cost was before them all now, and for the first time King felt the shame and self doubt that follows failure.

  Suddenly the sound of a drum was heard from below. The rafale grew louder, and the pandemonium that had seemed to fill the ship slowly stilled.

  "The marines!" Fraiser said half to himself, before making his way forward at a pace, with King no more than a step behind.

  Lieutenant Newman’s hat could be seen rising up as its owner mounted the quarterdeck steps. Then the shakos of his men and the bright polished steel of their bayonets came into view. Newman’s face was uncharacteristically serious, although he held himself as erect as ever, and seemed to exude order and reassurance as his men fanned out across the quarterdeck.

  "Secure the deck, corporal."

  The marine N.C.O. saluted smartly, before turning to bellow at the seamen. "You lot, back in the waist!"

  "Those two can remain, Mr Jarvis," Fraiser interrupted. "They are loyal."

  The others were pressed unceremoniously down the steps or onto the gangways, until the entire quarterdeck was back in control, with a line of marines standing firm across the break.

  "We had better speak with the men." Fraiser muttered to King.

  "But the captain?"

  "The captain is nae here, and this needs to be done quickly."

  King nodded. Officially he was the senior officer, being of commissioned rank, but there was no doubt who had the greater experience and, if it came to it, natural authority. Newman glanced across, clearly ready to take control. As the officer in command of the ship’s marine detachment he could order his men to advance, and attempt to quell the uprising with force and cold steel, but something told them all that a more delicate hand was needed.

  Without a word Fraiser pushed himself forward until he was level with the mainmast, and stared down at the mass of milling bodies in the waist below. He glanced up, the yards were all bare now, although men still manned the tops, and a few hung to the shrouds, presumably to get a better view of the proceedings.

  "So tell me, who’d be in charge here?" he asked, the irony strong in his voice. "Is it your officers, those you hae sworn to obey, the ones you look tae when you need help or support? Or are you set on organising things for y’selves, from now onwards?"

  The question elicited roars of defiance and denial that mingled oddly; no man caught his eye but it was clear that the people were not united.

  "Ver’ well," Fraiser continued, examining the crowd, and gauging his time. "So when I gie ye the order tae disperse, you will do so, and return tae your usual stations." His voice was firm, without hint of waver, and only the slight strengthening of his accent gave any clue to his emotions. King glanced across at Newman, watching respectfully to one side.

  "Disperse." The order was delivered at the same volume, and yet the effect was staggering. Men moved almost instinctively, and began to shuffle away. From further forward one man started to speak in an angry whine, but was quickly shouted down by his fellows. Those aloft began a slow decent by the shrouds, and others started to file down the companionways, muttering and arguing as they went. It was clear that Fraiser had regained control; the deck would have been cleared in no time, were it not for another shout that came from the captain’s quarters, followed by an ominous sigh from the rest of the crew. Fraiser and the other officers looked down; clearly something was happening on the half deck below. Then the captain could be seen walking from under the quarterdeck, with Scales and another man following close behind.

  "You stay where you are, or I’ll know the reason why!" Scales pushed Banks roughly forward and King was astonished to see that he held a pistol at the captain’s back.

  "Och, it’s you, Scales," Fraiser said, as both men turned to look at him. "Ah might have known yon waur behind this."

  "Not just me," Scales waved the pistol complacently, "We’re all together, as I have just been explaining to the captain here."

  "Not all!" the captain’s voice rose up suddenly. "Pandora has more loyal hearts than traitors, what say you lads?"

  Scales thrust the pistol into Banks’ side, making him wince in pain.

  "Captain’s right, Scales!" Flint’s voice rang out from deep inside the crowd and amid a chorus of agreement.

  "Aye, you can put your head into a noose if yer wants, but you ain’t takin’ us with ‘e." Jenkins bellowed, from somewhere further back.

  "Let the cap’n, go," another voice. "He never done you no ’arm!"

  Scales tried unsuccessfully to spot the defectors, ignoring the murmurs and mutterings that might have been support or defiance.

  "It’s a dangerous thing for anyone that follows you." Fraiser continued, addressing the entire crew, while his eyes remained set on Scales and the captain. "The penalty fur mutiny is death, as you all are well awares. An’ perhaps you also know that, unless this is settled now, I might face the same fate. And I don’t intend tae waste mah life on a weasel such as you."

  A ripple of gentle laughter came and was gone in an instant. Scales looked about him.

  "It ain’t only us, Mister Fraiser." he said with certainty and more than a hint of disdain. "The ‘ole fleet’s up, an’ ‘as been so for a while. We’ve put demands forward, an’ they gone unanswered. We’ve made claims, reasonable claims, and they’ve been ignored. No man’s pay has increased for nigh on an hundred an’ fifty years, ain’t that right, lads?" A mutter of support was starting to grow amongst the men as he went on. "An’ we’re being short changed even when we gets it." There were more nods of agreement now as Scales got into his stride. "Short changed in pay, and short changed in provisions – who ever heard of fourteen ounces to a pound? Our pusser – that’s who! He an’ every man like him in the fleet!"

  "We are at war," Banks said evenly. "Do you expect our lives to be easy?"

  Again Scales thrust the pistol at the captain, although this time Banks caught the barrel and calmly moved it away.

  "It will do you no good if I am shot, so kindly remove your weapon."

  Scales drew back, but continued to hold the pistol level with the captain’s chest. "I mean no disrespect, but it ain’t fair, the way we’re treated." He looked about, with a trace of uncertainty as the enormity of his crime began to dawn on him. "It ain’t that we’re disloyal, all are more’n willing to fight for our country, but God help us if we’re wounded, ‘cause there’s no pay when we’re in sick bay, an’ you’re tellin’ me that’s fair?"

  "I’m not saying you have no cause to complain," Banks’ voice was low and steady, and gradually the men started to listen, "and I’m the last to deny any man what is rightly his. But this is not the way to proceed, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a fool or a liar." The crowd murmured again, and the theatrical aspect of his position struck Banks. He might be an actor on the stage or, more accurately, a lawyer appealing to a jury. Despite the fact that Scales was holding a gun on him, it was the crew that held the true power. "You say the Admiralty have ignored your
requests, well what did you expect?" He turned slightly, sweeping the deck with his glance. "How would it be if a navy were governed by the men, where would be the command?"

  Scales opened his mouth to speak, but Banks was too quick.

  "Are you Frenchmen? Do ye want to discuss if you feel like fighting: yes or no? Must you be consulted if you wish to put to sea, or as to the course, or the set of the sails? Is that the kind of men we have aboard Pandora?"

  Again the men began to mumble and argue amongst themselves, although Banks had won a good many back.

  "Think how it would be if the Admiralty agreed to whatever you want; some amongst you might be satisfied, but there would be others," his eyes fell back to Scales. "Others who would ask for more; others who would never be happy until they had wrung out every last penny, and then some. So tell me, is that how you want the Navy to be run?"

  The murmurs of discussion rose up in a crescendo until once more the men were arguing vehemently; apparently the captain’s words had found a home.

  "We expect to have our grievances heard!" Scales almost screamed, and then repeated himself in a lower tone almost truculently.

  "Then you’d be sadly amiss in your method." It was a new voice, a voice none of them had noticed before. It came from an unknown man in his late twenties dressed in the uniform of a quartermaster’s mate. Backed by another, slightly older, petty officer he stepped forward from the ranks of seamen with an air of authority and weight that drew immediate attention and respect from the crowd.

  "You’ll forgive me, sir?" he turned to Banks and knuckled his forehead. "It appears there has been some misunderstanding, and perchance a little over enthusiasm amongst the people."

  CHAPTER NINE

  BANKS sipped at the welcome glass of brandy and stretched his feet gratefully towards the fire that burned in the port admiral’s office. Sir Peter Parker was well into his seventies, and it was hard for a young frigate captain to detect the vibrant, energetic officer that had been so active during the American wars in the portly, bewigged admiral. The same man who had led the attack against Sullivan’s Island now sat comfortably opposite him, belly protruding generously over his britches and powdered wig slightly askew, to the other side of the grate. But then his appearance came as no surprise; Sir Peter had been a family friend and frequent visitor at the Banks household for as long as he could remember and the admiral’s image had changed little over the last twenty years.